The silence in the bookshop stretched, thick and heavy as wet wool. Bishop Alfe's entrance had not just broken the quiet atmosphere, but it had shattered the very sense of safety the space usually provided.
Eamond's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the calm his face struggled to maintain.
This was no chance visit. It was a predator entering his hunting ground.
"Your Grace," Eamond said, his voice thankfully steady. He gave a short, respectful bow, the movement automatic.
"This is an unexpected honor. I thank you for grazing my humble shop with your divine present."
The Bishop only smiled, yet it did not reach his eyes, and looked empty.
He then began to glide through the small space, his white robes whispering against the floorboards.
His long, pale fingers trailed over the spines of books, not pulling them out, but feeling them, as if reading their history through touch alone.
